


if you're going through hell (keep going)

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bitty might be a ghost, Bitty really didn't move on, Ghosts, Hallucinations, I don't think this is as bad as it sounds, I really enjoyed writing it, Jack finds out he has a terminal illness and rediscovers a lot about himself, Jack is trying to figure that one out, Jack moved on but not really, Kinda, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multi, Supernatural Elements, but he's doing alright, end of life planning, frank discussions of mortality, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Eighteen years ago, Samwell suffered the tragic loss of one of its most promising young athletes. Ever since, rumors have circulated that the school is haunted by the ghost of Eric Bittle. At least, that’s the only way anyone can seem to explain why the locker rooms smell like freshly baked apple pie on game days instead of the usual, omnipresent hockey funk.Now, in the twilight of his career, Jack Zimmermann is facing his own mortality and the last item on his bucket list: return to Samwell and disprove the rumor that his long-dead boyfriend is haunting Faber Memorial Rink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/gifts).



> This thing has gone through several revisions and was started over a year ago but it's one of my favorite things. I really hope y'all enjoy it. Huge shoutout to omgpieplease.tumblr.com for the amazing art he did to accompany this piece! If you like it, please leave a comment! I love hearing from you, keeps me going <3

 

 

** _[This is how it starts.]_ **

 

 

 

 

 

Under blinding arena lights, surrounded by a rain of blue and yellow confetti, mere feet from the second love of his life, Jack Zimmermann hugs his boyfriend close and promises forever.

 

 

 

 

 

  

** _[This is how it ends.]_ **

 

 

 

 

Jack says ‘ _thank you_ ’, like the kid on the line has done him a favor.

Jack doesn’t feel anything at first, just sets the phone down and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling of his hotel room. Some Samwell frog, with stars in his eyes and access to Bittle’s phone, wakes him from a dead sleep and he says ‘ _thank you_ ’. 

Beside him, Tater snuffles into his pillow. 

From the nothingness, he thinks, ‘ _I need to return the ring._ ’

There’s no closure. No fight that Jack will get to spend the rest of his days regretting. It’s as clean a break as anyone could hope for — their last conversation ended with _‘good luck’_ , and _‘I love you’._

He knows it’s heartless and he can only take so much before he rolls out of bed to pad to the bathroom and stare himself down in the mirror. His eyes are red, but nothing out of the ordinary. His stubble is growing out nicely — _‘One last kiss before you turn into a wolf-man’ —_ god-willing he’ll have a fairly impressive playoff beard. 

Across the room, Jack’s phone is lighting up with text notifications. Lightning bolt flashes of concern.

He glares at his reflection. “ _Pleure_ ,” he orders. Nothing happens. _“Aller, fais quelque chose, fuck —”_

There’s a knock on the door and Tater groans something Jack can’t understand. 

He meets his reflection again. “ _J'sais que t'es triste, juste -- donne-moi quelque chose, n'importe quoi."_

More knocking, more grumbling from Tater, _“Zee…get door…too tired…”_

_“Mais qu'est-ce que t'as?”_ It rises in him like a wave, uncontrollable and furious. _“Pourquoi est-ce que tu pleures pas?”_

There’s a crash, a half-second delay before Jack feels the pain radiating from where his fist has connected with the glass. 

The pounding on the door intensifies.

Before him, his reflection is splintered among the panes of the broken mirror. He knows he’s bleeding but he doesn’t care. Or he cares too much. Is there a difference anymore?

He feels a twinge of agony and grabs at the emotion like a fox chasing a rabbit; bearing down, searching for anything that will give meaning to what’s just happened to him.

Anguish rises hot as bile and he can _feel_ the sounds coming from his throat even if he can’t hear himself yelling. His body is catching up to his brain. Finally.

In what’s left of the mirror he can see his own anguished face, eyes bloodshot and cheeks wet, right before he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his torso, dragging him from the mirror, out of the bathroom.

_“Easy, Zimmboni, easy —“_

Jack sinks into Tater’s arms and just _cries._

It’s an odd and terrible thing to wake up and find your life has been completely upended. 

Jack would know. 

It’s happened to him twice.

 

 

  

 

* * *

 

Jack Zimmermann stands at center ice for the first time in over a decade, before a score of students, reporters, and Samwell Trustees, as the university re-dedicates a building to, arguably, their ‘most famous’ alumni. 

Like so many things in his life, Jack’s past has been slapped with a new coat of varnish. His name etched on the side of a building packed so full of memories the walls could bleed secrets. 

The glass is new, the boards have been replaced, and the images painted beneath the ice are unfamiliar — but this is still his home. Samwell. Faber.

Well, _‘Faber Memorial Rink at Zimmermann Hall’._

An honor and a curse in equal measure, to have his name attached to this place. After everything that’s happened here, four years of failing to bring the school a championship, and _his_ name is the one people will remember.

In the stands, he can see Shitty, Coach Murray and a long-since retired Coach Hall. Larissa. Adam. Familiar faces in a sea of young students looking to catch a glimpse of Samwell royalty.

He smiles for the cameras, gives a small speech, hands over a Falconers jersey from his last cup run, accepts the commemorative plaque, and goes through the motions of being a retired pro athlete.

Kisses hands and shakes babies, as his father used to say.

After the pleasantries are sorted Jack slips away to reminisce, walking the back hallways and sneaking into the locker room to check if Holster’s rancid jock ever did get pried off the floor.

It did, obviously, but in Jack’s mind, the stench will always remain. 

A row of framed jerseys stretches from the arena entrance to the box office; Samwell’s own Hall of Fame. The best players from the best years. Record holders, captains, alumni that went on to play professionally. 

He never took the time to pay his respects when he was here as a student, and now it feels disrespectful not to go frame by frame.

_Campbell, #9. Markowitz, #67. Trevor, #32. Zimmermann, #1. Chow, #55._

He stops at his old jersey, admires the faded red, the off-white, the tiny tear on the shoulder he knows the trainer missed before sending it to be framed. He knocks his knuckles against it gently, relishing the ‘clink’ of his championship ring against the glass. A salute to his past self. Everything he overcame. 

He moves on, past Chris’s jersey (conspicuously out of order), and finds what he’s been looking for. He throws an arm out to stop his Samwell guide, the current SMH captain — a kid called Haggerty — and points to the jersey.

_Bittle, #15._

“You know, when Bittle started out he couldn’t take a hit. A few years later he was captain. Led SMH to the Frozen Four —” Jack stumbles when Haggerty makes a low noise in his throat, “— but that’s not what you boys remember about him, is it?”

Haggerty won’t meet his eyes and the moment is too heavy for Jack’s liking so he forces past his second-hand embarrassment to tap his ring against the glass over the pristine white ‘ _15_ ’.

“It’s alright, son. You’re not alone in that. Just try to remember he was a great captain, eh? Do me that favor?” 

Jack lifts his hand and taps his ring over the clean number 15 jersey. The sound echoes differently off the newer glass and Jack winces when it causes a pain behind his left eye. 

“You okay?”

“Little sensitive sometimes,” Jack rubs his temple and waves off the kid’s concern. “Take enough hits and the headache never really goes away.”

Haggerty pales and Jack would laugh if he wasn’t still focused on Bittle’s jersey, more specifically: the tiny chip in the glass where his ring caught a bad angle.

“ _Crisse_ , sorry,” Jack apologizes, running his thumb over the damage while Haggerty waves over the rest of the alumni tour group. “I’ll fix it.”

He could spend all day here; drag a chair from the office and plant his ass right in the middle of the hallway, grab a cup of coffee, crack open a book, just for a moment, let himself _exist_. It’s as close as Jack can get to Bittle without flying to Madison and sulking around Whitlock like a psychopath, but there isn’t time. There’s never time, anymore. An alumni dinner is calling his name and he’s the guest of honor.

Jack moves to touch the small brass plaque beside the jersey. 

“Good seeing you, Bits,” Jack whispers, low enough his escort won’t hear.

That night Jack has three glasses of wine, shakes fifty-six hands, and writes a tax-deductible check for $298,000 to thank Samwell for putting his name on the building his college sweetheart died in. 

All in all, it isn’t a terrible evening.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Jack’s been alone for a long time. 

He tried billeting, in the early days, when his Falconers teammates remembered what he’d lost. Shared his home with an ever-rotating cast of teammates, working to recreate a semblance of what he’d found at Samwell. 

He’s spent years trying to replace what he had in college. Friends that knew him intimately; teammates that were closer than blood. 

As the Falconers raised banners his reputation grew and it became harder to connect with anyone beyond his existing social circle. Everyone he met wanted something from him, his time, his attention, his money. The game sticks he pushed over the glass intended for smiling children wearing Zimmermann jerseys eventually ended up in their parent’s eBay stores. He understands his father a lot better these days; knows how easy it is to keep people with stars in their eyes at arm’s length.

As Jack’s optimism slowly faded, so too did the Falconers’ old guard. One by one Jack’s inner circle fell away to retirement, trades, injuries. Eventually, the A on Jack’s chest became a C and when Jack could no longer carry the team alone, they cut him loose in free agency. 

Tater had been the last of Jack’s line to make it through after the third cup run, and when the Habs came calling Jack made sure the offer extended to Mashkov, as well.

Tater was there from the beginning. For Eric. For the PR nightmare that was his ‘relationship’ with Katrina. For his father’s first heart attack. For Jack’s knee replacement. Then, eventually, for his retirement. 

Kent, god bless him, retired after his third cup and second hip surgery while Jack was still cutting up the ice with the Canadiens. Then he told the entire world he was gay and getting married to some actor Jack recognized from one HBO show or another. 

They made a handsome couple and staring at the pap photos still makes Jack’s eyes hot and his chest ache.

He forces himself to think about something else. What-ifs won’t do him any good when he’s already halfway to drunk. Especially not the painful what-ifs. Instead, ignoring the steady headache that’s keeping him awake, he grabs his phone and texts Shitty to set up a dinner date. 

He needs to share…something with someone. Maybe not the truth, but…something.

His fingers itch to call Tater. 

Instead, he dials one S. Knight.

 

* * *

 

 

The headaches don’t go away after the Samwell visit. In fact, they get bad enough his primary care physician sends him up to Boston to see a specialist.

Jack’s prepared for CTE. He’s half expecting it, really; his last season had been a mess of head injuries that he’d been lucky to walk away from at all and his coordination has only gotten worse these last few months. 

What he doesn’t expect is for the doctor to somberly point out a dark spot on his CT scan and tell him he has a grade IV glioma pressing on his brain stem. He doesn’t know what that is at first, but he learns quickly enough it’s a malignant tumor. 

It says something about the state of his world that his personal assistant is the only one with him when he gets the news. His current PR squeeze is in Vermont for some fundraiser, his parents are wintering in Marseille, and Jack is sitting in an office in Boston while an oncologist throws around words like ‘ _advanced_ ’ and _‘inoperable_ ’.

He interrupts her while she’s listing treatment options and asks, “How long? Realistically?”

“If you don’t do anything — which I highly advise against — months. With aggressive, immediate action, the outlook is far more favorable. We just can’t be sure until we start exploring options. There’s a promising trial —”

“But it’s bad?” Jack prods, even as Janine chokes back a sob beside him. 

He feels a finger poking his shoulder and turns to find a phone in his face, a Wikipedia page already pulled up showing survival rates for his particular brand of incurable hell. They’re low. A bookie wouldn't bet on these odds. 

The doctor gives him a list of treatment options but everything seems to amount to buying time at the expense of comfort. She apologizes like it’s her fault and Jack can’t find it in him to be upset with the diagnosis.

“I’m going to take a few days to consider my options,” he tells his oncologist. He’s already made a decision, and it may not the right one, but regardless, it’s his. They schedule a follow-up appointment, one Jack fully intends to skip, and that’s that.

He’s literally dying but he doesn’t really feel anything. At least nothing that makes sense. Maybe he’s in shock. 

Or maybe he’s not surprised. 

The minute they’re alone in the elevator, Jack says, “I have cancer,” just to see if he feels different saying it aloud. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, Janine turns her watery red eyes on him and says, _“I am so sorry,_ ” with all of the emotion Jack thinks he’s supposed to be feeling.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. It’s not okay at all but he’s not sorry. Not really. It’s actually amazing how not sorry he is. Maybe he’s in shock, or, more realistically, he’s always had a slight obsession with dying young. A brain tumor is pretty much wish fulfillment at this point.

“I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was 18,” Jack admits, resisting the urge to push all of the floor buttons. “I’m just amazed something didn’t happen sooner.”

They make it to the car park without incident. No requests for photos, no autographs, barely any acknowledgment from the staff. It’s wonderful. 

When he flexes his hands around the steering wheel, he can finally recognize the minute trembling in his fingers as nerve damage and not general anxiety. 

“How can you be so blasé about this? You’re probably going to—” she cuts off, immediately flushing with embarrassment. 

“What? Die? Definitely.” He presses the ignition and shifts into reverse, already making a list in his mind of the things he wants to do next. Then he remembers the woman beside him he’s literally paying to do that for him.

“I’m sorry. We should probably cancel that interview with The Athletic, right?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, um,” her confusion keeps her brow furrowed tight even as she fumbles with her tablet to do as he asks. “Should I confirm the follow-up with Doctor LaGraff, too?”

“Mmm, later.”

“Jack, maybe you shouldn’t be making decisions like this right now, you just got some really bad news, maybe we should call your parents or something?”

“They’re still on vacation. I’m not going to be miraculously healed just because my parents hop a red-eye to comfort me over something I’m not upset about.”

“See, that doesn’t really sound like you,” Janine fidgets terribly and Jack resists the urge to snap at her to stop. “So, if we’re not calling your parents or your girlfriend, and we’re not rescheduling an appointment for treatment options, what are we doing?”

Jack worries his bottom lip with long-since ceramic teeth. 

“What do you think the best pie place in the city is?”

 

* * *

 

That night, back in Providence, Jack lies awake staring at the ceiling, craving the blissful exhausted calm that comes every few minutes when one terrifying thought dissipates and another has yet to take its place.

Imminent death brings unwanted thoughts of missed opportunities. He regrets flaming out in his teens. He regrets being so afraid for so long to come out. 

He regrets regretting so much. 

Logically, he knows he’s built an unshakeable legacy. Three cups with one team is nothing to sniff at. So many trophies. Countless All-Star games. He’ll be voted into the Hall of Fame in a few short years and his career was an unquestionable success story.

But his personal life? 

A disappointing paragraph on his Wikipedia page. Married. Divorced. No children. Barely a mention of a college sweetheart. A throwaway line about the tragic story behind _‘The Kiss Heard ‘Round The World’._

 

Maybe it’s all the regret that leads to the next terrible phase of Jack’s illness because he is a solid three weeks removed from the diagnosis when he has his first hallucination.

He’s trapped in the throws of another sleepless night when a familiar tune pops into his head, a song he hasn’t heard in years. While he tracks the flickering shadows of the city lights as they dance across his ceiling, he tries to remember the words.

He keeps singing, humming, forgetting half the lyrics, repeating the chorus an excessive number of times, and when his energy finally burns out he grunts in frustration, rolls over, and finds he’s not alone.

Beside him, stretched across the sheets and drenched in moonlight, is a bare, beautiful, and deceptively _alive_ Eric Bittle.

Jack stares unable to do anything but gawk while Eric watches him with knowing eyes.

_“You have such a beautiful voice,”_ Eric whispers, voice just wrong enough to make Jack realize the moment can’t be real. _“Why don’t you sing for me anymore?”_

Jack jerks bodily and barely has time to lean over the side of the bed before his gasping breaths turn to full-body dry-heaving. Nothing comes up, thank god, but the result is just as undesirable. At 3 am Jack is terribly, helplessly awake and he does _not_ want to go back to sleep.

Wary of his aching gut, Jack pulls on a pair of sweats and heads to his office to find his Samwell album. 

He hasn’t dreamed about Bitty in years and he doesn’t want to see him again; not now, not like this. Not when his brain is turning itself inside out and he can’t even be sure he’s remembering the right version of Eric. 

He’s gone through so many phones, computers, and cameras, the only photos he knows he can trust are the hard copies he hoarded after a stalker tried to hack his cloud storage. What he’d been able to salvage had gone into a book. The book went on a shelf. When he moved, the book went into a box that never got unpacked. Now, Jack is deep in his office closet digging through years of dust and dead bugs to find _one_ damn photo. If it still exists. 

If he was brave enough to save it.

_“_ Ah, there you are you _fucker_ \--”

Jack wrests the folio free and falls back on his ass to take the pressure off his bad knee. Taped to the front of the binder is a team photo from Jack’s senior year. The Wellies. His boys. He brushes a thumb over the picture to wipe away errant dust and tries to keep his gaze from lingering over #15.

He fails.

“Hey, Bits,” he greets lamely. “Guess I’m going to be seeing you again sooner than we thought, eh?” 

The rest of the night is spent on the floor, thumbing through years of forgotten photographs and news clippings. By the time dawn is creeping through the shades Jack has discovered a stack of post-it love notes Jack doesn’t remember saving.

He traces his fingers over the first note, circling the faded sharpie bunny and the jaunty _‘GO FALCS’_ beneath it. The ‘O’ is in the shape of a heart.

Carefully, he peels each paper slowly, noting how faded they all are, how the colors have bled and the adhesive has worn away. They’re old. Relics of a life Jack hasn’t allowed himself to think about in a very long time. 

He’s never been more grateful for his misplaced nostalgia because between the faded sheets, after _‘Good luck, Sweetie!’_ and before _‘FUCK UP THE BLACKHAWKS’_ there is a bright blue note so vibrant and crisp, Jack could swear it’s new. He pulls it gently from the pile and holds it up to the dim light so he can read the carefully penned message.

_‘You’re doing so well, sweetheart! I know it’s hard but you won’t have to struggle for much longer, I promise. Miss you <3’_

A teardrop splashes on the small heart and Jack can’t pretend it’s a side effect of his migraine, anymore.

He sets down the notes and fumbles for what he’s really after — the photos inconspicuously taped behind the Samwell shots. Hidden in plain sight. Safe. Undamaged. Incriminating. Or they were at one point. Not anymore. At least not since his divorce.

Jack wipes his face with his sleeve and slides out his favorite picture from behind a Hazeapalooza shot: Eric, naked, dozing in the morning sun, as only Jack would ever see him. Of course, thirty seconds after Jack had taken the shot, Bitty rolled over and groaned, _‘Honey, I better look amazing, and you need to move because I need to pee.’_

Jack moves to put the photo back when he notices something on the back, flipping the image to find a small blue heart and another note Jack can’t remember having seen before.

_One day, you’ll let me take boudoir photos of you, too, pervert._

Jack spends the rest of the night on the floor, exploring all the forgotten corners of his past, savoring the return of memories he’d long since abandoned in favor of a painless existence. When the sun comes up, illuminating the mess he’s made of his office, Jack collects the small pile of photos he needs and moves to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

It takes an hour but he pulls every frame in the house and swaps out the pictures to more accurately reflect his life. He trades pap shots for Polaroids of family skates and Haus parties. He places the photo of Eric beside his bed, next to his meds.

If there’s going to be a repeat incident of the hallucination, Jack needs something concrete to ground him; or, at least that’s the lie he tells himself.

  

 

 

 

* * *

 

The diagnosis comes with a terrible knowledge that every twinge of a headache isn’t a sign of too little coffee or too much sun, it’s a reminder there’s a mass of something shitty in his brain trying to kill him.

At this point, Jack’s can’t tell if his symptoms are progressing because he’s getting sicker, or if it’s all psychosomatic because he’s now aware of his illness. 

Jack does an interview with Sports Illustrated while nursing a migraine so severe he can’t _see_ the person he’s talking to. He co-commentates a Habs-Fliers game sitting on his hands because they’re shaking so badly; not from anxiety but from nerve damage. 

Every other night, the ones where he actually sleeps, he finds himself trapped in vicious dreams holding intense conversations with someone he can’t identify. Interactions he can barely remember that leave him aching and exhausted when he wakes.

Things come to a head in New York, of all places. 

Jack had committed months earlier to participating in a ‘ _30 for 30’_ documentary about the Falconers back to back championships in ‘22 and ‘23, following a disastrous league lockout during the 2019-2020 season and a full management turnover in 2021.

It’s a great story and Jack’s happy to tell it; however, Jack isn’t so happy to be ambushed by his father at the crafty table while debating how badly he wants to eat a double-chocolate brownie given the likelihood he’s going to be seeing it again later.

The producer claps a hand on his back, startling him out of his dessert dilemma, and he turns to see his father, Bob- _fucking_ -Zimmermann, in all of his silver-haired glory, wearing his best _‘everything is fine, nothing to see here’_ smile.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that someone broke rank.

“Papa,” he greets, feigning surprise while the producer gushes excitedly about getting Jack and Bob on the same screen.

“Of course,” Jack tries to match the man’s enthusiasm. “happy to be here. Let me know if you need any b-roll, I’ll be in town until Tuesday.”

“Fantastic! We’ll get you two together, relive the glory days a little, eh?”

The man leaves them to their own devices and Bob huffs in irritation.

“‘ _Glory Days_ ’? You’re barely over 40, still a baby,” his father mutters as the producer retreats. “ _I’m_ old.”

“Yes,” Jack agrees, “you are.”

The short exchange seems to exhaust his father and Jack realizes _why_ when they’re alone and Bob drops the false humor. 

_“Is it true?”_ His father asks, switching to a less obvious tongue. _“Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me I didn’t have to learn about this from your fucking assistant.”_

Jack checks his mic to make sure it isn’t hot and feels nostalgic for a moment, remembering just how many serious conversations they’ve shared smack in the middle of a crowded room.

_“I didn’t want you to find out that way. Clearly, she’s fired.”_

His father scrubs a hand over his face and makes a noise that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a cough before cursing, and Jack can see the cracks in the media armor.

_“How long have you known?”_

The shy PA who brought him his coffee earlier offers a parting wave from across the room and Jack shoots her a smile. Bob is quiet beside him, his ‘media face’ firmly in place, but Jack can see the cracks in the facade. The sorrow creeping in at the edges, the way his smile doesn’t meet his eyes.

_“About a month. I was feeling off and they ran some tests.”_

_“Why didn’t you tell us?”_

Jack doesn’t have a good answer. It’s not that he didn’t want them to worry, nothing so altruistic, it’s just…

_“Maybe I thought if I didn’t tell anyone, I wouldn’t have to deal with it. Selfishness, I guess.”_

_“There are always options, treatments,”_ Bob stresses, the whites of his eyes slowly turning pink. _“We have time, Jack, connections, money —”_  

The AD comes to collect them and the conversation, what little there was left to say, is put on hold so Jack can relive the great moments of his career and pretend, if only for a little while.

Somewhere between recounting the Falcs management purge and Jack’s coming out, Bob gets an arm around his shoulders and squeezes tight. Jack wonders if this will be the last time the world will see him and his father on the same screen together. Maybe someone will watch this documentary years from now and just before the credits, there will be a postscript dedication, plain white letters on a black background, _‘In Memory of Jack Zimmermann 1990 - 20XX’._

He thinks about his trophies, his awards, his sparsely-decorated brownstone with the oversized industrial kitchen he’d purchased against his ex-wife’s wishes because he’d always imagined himself somewhere else — building a different kind of life with a different set of characters. A different partner. 

He thinks about tumors and white blood cell counts. Terrible late-night phone calls. What-ifs and lost loves. Kent. Eric. Samwell. Providence. The in-laws that weren’t. The friends that drifted. 

Facing down a film crew, Jack feels the weight of twenty years land square on his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, Jack feels true regret.

Bob squeezes him tightly again, and over the cameraman’s shoulder, the producer motions for Jack to smile.

 

* * *

 

There’s a photo of Jack and Eric on the mantle in the Zimmermann’s summer home. 

Jack’s parents always try to hide it before Jack comes to visit but he’s seen it more than a few times; taken during their last winter together in Providence. They’d kept it through his engagement, marriage, and eventual divorce. It stayed through his trade to Vancouver.

It’s still up, now, and Jack stares at it until his eyes burn, fighting the urge to knock back the two fingers of whiskey left in his glass.

He doesn’t blame his parents for trying to keep Eric’s memory alive. Jack did the same those long months after the accident, but one day it became too painful to see Eric every day and Jack purged the apartment. Tossed everything into a box and moved on.

_Tried_ to move on.

Jack focuses on his younger self, the smile stretching his cheeks so wide Jack can count his own teeth; even the ones he’s long since had to replace. He was young. They all were.

A jaunty whistle comes from down the hall and Jack turns to see his father leaning out of his study, waving a glass in Jack’s direction.

“Kid, c’mere, I have something for you.” 

Jack abandons his reverie and finds his father standing beside his desk with a dark wooden case. 

“You’re not serious,” Jack grins, recognizing the case from his father’s study, normally locked up a deceptively secure liquor cabinet. “We’re cracking it open? Now?”

“I was waiting for a special occasion,” Bob explains, unlocking the chest and pulling out a bottle adorned with a glittering silver stag’s head. “God knows there were so many opportunities.” 

“Are we making up for lost time?” Jack asks, taking a seat while his father slices through the seal with a pocket knife. “With a quarter-million dollar bottle of Scotch?”

“This isn’t about the Dalmore,” Bob counters, peeling back the wax to get at the stopper. “This is about sharing a moment with my son.”

“Papa,” Jack interrupts. “You can say it out loud. I won’t be offended. Cancer. Can- _cer_.”

“Not about ‘ _offense_ ’. It’s about giving power to something that shouldn’t have power.” 

There’s a soft ‘pop’ as the stopper comes loose and Bob lifts the bottle to his nose, inhaling deeply, before handing it to Jack and motioning for him to do the same. 

“They only made twelve bottles of the 64. I planned to open it when you won your first cup. Then things changed and your mother and I thought we should save it for your wedding.” 

“Superstitions aren’t going to heal me,” Jack straightens in his seat to pass the bottle back to his father. “And I was going to say, I didn’t see you offering shots at the reception?”

“I wasn’t saving it for Katrina,” Bob doesn’t meet Jack’s eyes while he fills the glasses. 

It’s a heavy admission but something Jack has always known. 

“Kenny?” Jack goads, and Bob gives him a warning look. 

Jack can’t help it. It should be a somber moment, sharing a drink with his father on the occasion of his impending death — what might possibly be their last real bonding moment before Jack fucks off back to Providence — and he starts laughing at the absurdity of it all. 

“Could you imagine Eric drinking straight Scotch? He’d hate it.”

“He just needed time to develop his palate,” Bob defends while Jack wipes his tears, gasping breaths between laughing fits. 

“Bittle was a Jack and Coke Southern boy, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.” 

Jack has an urge to raid the mini-fridge behind the bar, and sure enough, he finds a chilled can of Coca-Cola among the ginger-ale and tonic water. He cracks it open and pours it right into his glass while his father fights his own laughter and motions for Jack to pass what’s left of the soda his way so he can do the same.

“To Bits,” Jack toasts, distantly remembering the toast he botched on his cup day so many years ago, “and forty-four years of scraping by.”

“To Eric,” Bob lifts his own glass, watching Jack with damp eyes. “And to you, kid.” 

Jack takes a drink and winces at the taste.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

His hallucinations have been getting more elaborate. Technically, he shouldn’t even be driving, anymore.

Tonight, somewhere between the half-tab of Diazepam and a glass of scotch he shouldn’t be mixing with the former, Jack falls asleep, slipping through his bed right into a booth at Annie’s. For how crowded the cafe is, Jack can only hear the gentle slide of the sugar Bitty is pouring into his coffee.

It must be winter because it’s snowing outside and Jack’s hands are steady and warm around a cup of something hot he can’t identify. Too light to be coffee. A latte? He breathes in deeply through his nose and feels nutmeg tickle the back of his throat. Pumpkin Spice. 

The longer they sit, the more details come into focus: Bitty’s eyes are brown, his cheeks are pink, and he’s wearing Jack’s favorite flannel.

It’s peaceful, and Jack tries not the ruin the moment by wishing it would last forever. He fails.

“I hope this is what it’s like when I die,” Jack admits, and just like that the silence is shattered with a low roar of house music, hissing espresso machines, and dozens of desperate students getting their caffeine fix while they cram for finals.

“You don’t mean that,” Bitty chides, barely hiding a smile. “All this noise. Awfully crowded.”

“No, I think I do.” Jack focuses on his cup and the chestnut colored liquid darkens a shade. He tests it and shoots Bittle a grateful wink. “Was a little too sweet for me.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Bitty laughs. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the New Year’s cheesecake incident. When Jack Zimmermann wants sweets, he wants _all_ of the sweets.”

“And I’m retired now,” Jack offers, moving to pat his stomach, but when he looks down he notices he isn’t quite himself. A little too lean. A little too young. “Well, maybe not here. What, not a fan of hockey players past their prime, Bittle?”

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one showing off,” Bitty raises his hands in surrender. “As long as you know it’s not all sunshine and perfect coffee.”

“It’s not sunny,” Jack looks out the window at the fluffy white flakes trying so hard to blanket the street.

“Not yet,” Bitty says, following Jack’s lead and watching the snow come down. “Soon, though. I’ve been looking forward to Spring.”

Jack realizes suddenly that this is the farthest he’s ever gotten in one of his ‘ _Bitty Dreams_ ’; Jack isn’t waking violently to his alarm, or a text alert, or to a panic attack. He can keep talking, so he does.

“So is it like a Game of Thrones, long winter situation up here?”

“Up here?” Bitty gives him a measured look and breaks eye contact only to take a bite of a biscotti Jack is 100% certain was not there a moment ago. “Honey, where do you think we are?”

“I thought. . . Heaven? Right?”

It feels like the stupidest thing in the world once he says it aloud, and to his credit, Bittle doesn’t laugh in Jack’s face.

“Oh, sweet boy,” Bitty soothes, “this isn’t Heaven, this is Annie’s.”

“So, I’m dreaming? This is all in my head?”

“Afraid so, that’s usually where dreams take place.”

Jack wants privacy and when he looks up the other students have disappeared. They’re alone. 

“Oh! Alone time, gotcha. Say what you want to me, I won’t judge you,” Bitty says, before winking cheekily. “At least not too hard.”

Jack considers the offer of a lucid dream conversation with the man who would have been his husband in another life.

“I should have been there that night,” he says quickly, afraid he’s going to wake up, “I could have —”

Bitty holds up a hand. Outside, the snow is so thick Jack can barely make out anything beyond the sidewalk outside the cafe.

“I’m going to stop you right there.What, exactly, do you think you could have done? It wasn’t a stalker, or a bigot, or a dirty hit. It was a malformed blood vessel that waited 22 years to fail. You didn’t kill me, Jack, but if you want to keep blaming yourself —”

“I don’t blame myself,” Jack tries to sound confident, he really does, but the poor atmosphere snatches any nuance from his voice. 

“You’re a bad liar,” Bitty chides. “I better not find out you’ve spent your life living in regret.”

Jack is struck by the absurdity of the moment and in his semi-lucid state, he barks a laugh. 

“And what if I did? What will you do, then? Haunt me? I’m already dying.”

Bittle isn’t amused and the frown that twists his features is distressing enough that Jack focuses hard on the idea of Bitty smiling, happy. Nothing happens.

He tries again.

Nothing. The expression doesn’t change.

Instead, Bitty straightens in his seat and Jack’s vision falters, like a light being switched off and back on again in quick succession. Jack blinks and Bitty is no longer across the booth, rather tucked in close beside him — too close, distressingly close — and there’s literally nothing behind him. The music has stopped, there is no ‘snow’, just the two of them floating in a sea of white nothingness.

“Careful what you wish for, Jack,” Bitty whispers, cold lips brushing against his cheek softly. “ _I just might take you up on the offer._ ”

Jack’s confidence rears it’s ugly head and he whispers back, _“I wish you would.”_

Jack snaps out of his stupor and realizes he’s spilled what was left of his drink across the couch cushion. 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he wipes at the stain and gives up unnecessarily quickly. Honestly, he’s too tired to do anything about it, and Eric’s parting words are sitting heavy at the front of his thoughts.

“I wish you would haunt me, Bits,” Jack repeats, tossing his empty tumbler onto the rug. “At least give me something to look forward to.”

(Maybe if Jack were slightly more functional, he’d have noticed the now empty frame on his nightstand sooner.)

   

  

 

 

* * *

 

Jack needs a will. That’s the excuse he needs to call Shitty and drag him out for drinks; Shitty’s still nursing his first beer when Jack’s patience runs out and he lays it all on the table.

“That’s…fucked,” Shitty says lamely after a few moments. “Are you sure its, you know, terminal?”

Jack balls up a bar napkin and holds it against the back of his head, approximately where the tumor is still growing.

“Pretty fucking sure.”

“So, does this mean you’re finally going to go?”

“Go where?”

“ _‘Go where’,_ he says — Faber.”

Jack’s stomach threatens a summersault. Of all things Shitty could have brought up, he chooses the most unsettling topic possible.

“Not this again,” Jack warns, and Shitty gives him a hard glare.

“No, you know what? We’ve avoided this for far too long. I don’t want to add fuel to this shit-fire, Jack, but Anderson, Samwell’s last captain? Kid swore up and down it was true and you know me, I _grilled_ this little fucker. Every detail was spot on. And you’re the one having weird fever dreams about Bittle, maybe it’s connected.”

Jack downs the rest of his drink; he doesn’t want to hear it. 

“It’s a rumor. A disrespectful one, at that. It’s been twenty years, and I’d love it if I didn’t have to hear about my ex every time I go back for an alumni function.”

Shitty stares hard into his glass. “You said ‘ _ex_ ’.”

“What?”

“Ex. Bitty wasn’t an ex-anything. He wasn’t like Katrina, or Ryan. Say his fucking name. And Mandy and Jenny were no joke, why is this such a leap for you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not — it’s because it’s _Bits_ ,” Jack stresses, keeping an eye on the other bar patrons. “If he was actually hanging around, I think I’d know about it.”

Jack’s lying through his teeth and Shitty knows it.

“He died in fucking _Faber_. He wouldn’t be haunting your fat-ass, he’d be haunting the school. Ghost rules, man! I get it, okay? I do. You don’t want to consider that the man you loved might be stuck in some weird hockey purgatory, and that’s fine, but you’ve got inoperable- _fucking_ -cancer, Jack. You’re going to die. Full-stop. What happens if you eat it and he’s not waiting for you on the other side? You really want to risk that because you’re a little uncomfortable at Alumni dinners?”

Jack doesn’t flinch, but he signals the waiter for another drink, distracted for half a second by the way his hand shakes if he extends his arm too far. 

(What does it matter? What does any of this matter?)

“First off, Bernie, fuck you _—_ ”

“Go ahead. Call me names,” Shitty toasts him with a humorless smile. “You’re the one that’s going to be dead within the year.”

Jack falters before sucking in a needed breath and counting on the exhale. 

“I want mozzarella sticks,” he says, instead of countering the jab. “And fries.”

“You got it,” Shitty says, focused on Jack’s traitorous hand. “They got you on a pain management plan, yet?”

“Yeah, but it’s all opioids and I don’t like how they make me feel,” Jack trails off, noticing how Shitty is fidgeting before he pulls a small vaporizer from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. 

“Seriously? Still?”

“Dead serious,” Shitty shakes the vape temptingly. “You think I win all these cases sober? Let’s pop outside for a quickie.”

Jack’s years of drug tests and intensive training say no but the pressure behind his eyes says _yes_. 

“I’m ordering food first,” Jack agrees, knocking his foot against Shitty’s underneath the table. “Then we can get high.”

Later, outside, in a haze of smoke, Shitty looks at Jack sadly.

“You’re the last one, dude. Everyone else has gone back to check on him. I know you don’t want to, I do, but if there’s even a tiny chance he’s still fucking there, we have to help him. ”

Jack’s having a hard time blinking away the tears welling in his eyes, but they don’t fall. He looks up at the streetlight and motions for another hit.

“If he’s still there,” Jack says on the exhale, “I’ll find him. April 9th, right? That’s the anniversary?”

“Shit, you remember that? You missed the funeral.”

“I wasn’t heartless, Shits. I was busy.”

“Jesus, not this again,” Shitty sighs, snatching back the vape. “You wanna give that another shot, Romeo? I'm not the fuckin' press, Jack. I was there. You don't have to pretend anymore. No one gives a shit.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” Jack defends, too tired to be properly angry. “Tank a playoff run because my boyfriend died? Bare my soul in a scrum and turn a vulnerable moment into a media firestorm?”

Shitty opens his mouth to respond and Jack holds up a hand. 

“No, okay? Don’t start with me. When Eric died —there wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t want to uproot my entire fucking life. The only thing that kept me sane was Mashkov dragging my sorry ass out of bed every morning for practice; working for that damn cup. I will not apologize to you or anyone else for being afraid to draw attention to myself when I didn’t think I could get any lower.”

Jack is shaking and Shitty is so pale Jack can count the wrinkles around his eyes. They're old. They're so fucking _old._

“Do I regret missing the funeral? Of course. I should have been there. If not for him, for myself, but, _fuck_ , I regret so much, I can’t even begin to tell you — I regret marrying Katrina. I regret going to the Canadiens. I regret that I only see you and the boys once in blue moon. I regret —” 

The tears finally come and steal his courage in turn.

“I regret that I wasn’t there. I regret that I was too scared to come when it mattered. I regret that my life was everything I thought I wanted and I still hated it. I’m forty-four and I’m going to die, alone, just like he did,” he sniffs hard against a burgeoning runny nose and tries to laugh. “Well, good. I deserve it.”

“Jack…”

Jack snatches the vaporizer back from Shitty and takes another rough hit.

“I’ve been hallucinating conversations with Eric. At first, I had a weird amount of control but now they’re like fucked up dreams,” Jack admits into a puff of vapor. “I don’t know if I can handle ghost hunting and going insane at the same time, Shits." 

“You’re dying, Jack,” Shitty points out. “Pretty sure you can handle anything.”

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," Jack passes back the vape and rubs the moisture from his eyes. "I loved him. I really did. I know everyone thought I didn't, but --"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Shitty stops him, shoulders slumped in apology. "I was there. I saw you."

Jack can feel the weed kick in, dulling his senses and masking the emotional damage just enough to remind him they have food waiting inside.

"You really think he's still there?" Jack asks, sidestepping the valet check-in as they head back to their table. "Bitty?"

Shitty makes a noise that attracts the attention of their neighbors before he says, "Who knows, man. You're the one seeing him every night. Why don't you ask?"

It's not a terrible idea.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack's getting comfortable with the dreams, the hallucinations; enough to eschew the medication that he’s supposed to be taking to circumvent progressive symptoms. 

There’s something disgustingly indulgent about coming home to Eric again, even if he only exists in the confines of Jack’s deteriorating mind.

“Eric?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you a ghost?”

“That’s a loaded question, hon,” Eric laughs, facing away from him while he fusses with something on the dresser Jack can’t quite see. He’s wearing the same outfit he wore to Jack’s last home game — a quarter-zip sweater and slim-cut slacks under a soft, wool peacoat. 

“I loved that outfit,” Jack whispers, face half smushed against his pillow. “Maman said it made you look like a model.”

“That’s why I wore it,” Bitty doesn’t turn around. “It’s almost like I was trying to impress her.”

“And get in my pants,” Jack corrects, fumbling for his wine glass. “You were sneaky like that.”

“Did you forget I was 22? There were some days my only goal in life was to make you hot and bothered,” Eric counters, tossing a coy look over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you went and put me on a pedestal, Monsieur Zimmermann.”

The thought actually stops Jack cold because, by definition, he doesn’t know what he’s forgotten about Eric. He racks his brain for anything that isn’t glowing and nostalgic and comes up short. Just half moments of lazy mornings, baked goods, warmth, and…

He knows there were bad times, too. There had to be.

“You know, that could be the cancer,” Eric says, breaking his concentration. “But it’s more likely your coping mechanism was to shut down any negative thoughts about me.”

Jack finds Eric watching him intently when Jack’s struck by something long buried.

_“How could you do this to me? To us? You’re not the only person in this relationship!”_

Eric must read the change in his posture, turns his hands palm up, and shrugs. 

“Only the good die young, right?”

Jack wakes up twenty minutes before his alarm with tears on his cheeks and merlot all over the bedspread. He scrubs the sand from his eyes and tries a meditation exercise to calm himself when a flicker of light catches his attention. 

There’s a jar candle on the dresser burning so low the flame is barely a speck of orange, and Jack stares at it so long his eyes strain. He doesn’t own any candles, and he hasn’t purchased any since Katrina’s curtain fire incident of ‘26.

Jack rolls out of bed and sidesteps the (thankfully) unbroken wine glass to examine the jar candle that smells suspiciously familiar. He blows out the small flame and spins the jar to display ‘ _Caramel Apple Pie’_ in a cheerful font; below, a small peach sticker that proudly proclaims _‘Made in Georgia!’_

Jack sets the candle back where he found it and digs his phone out from between his red-stained sheets, takes a picture of the candle, and sends it to Shitty. When he receives no response, he hits the call button.

The line buzzes twice before Jack hears a groggy _‘Hello?’_

“You’re right. I think Bittle’s haunting me.”

_“…Cool. Tell him I say hi.”_

 

* * *

   

 

Jack breathes deeply and relishes the crisp scent of fresh ice as he hikes his bag higher onto his shoulder. Wood beams arch above him and if the sun were up, this place would look like a cathedral. 

Despite how many ridiculous conversations Jack has had about end of life arrangements, he doubts Samwell’s board of trustees would actually allow him to have his funeral on the ice. Well, that might just depend on how much money he leaves the school. Hell, a couple million might get his ashes quietly mixed in with the paint under the ice.

Jack leans down to lace his skates, forcing himself to power through the ache in his chest when he hears someone sit down beside him and a soft voice chirps, “ _Lord_ , you got old.”

Jack fights the lightheaded-ness that accompanies every new episode.

“That tends to happen,” Jack responds, keeping his eyes on his shaking hands, not willing to look up just yet, knowing exactly what he’ll find. 

When he does straighten, he shakes out his hands, takes an even breath, and turns to find Eric watching him with a bemused expression. He’s wearing his full kit this time, hair damp with sweat and jersey scuffed, the stitching at the corner of the C coming loose. 

  

 

Jack likes this version a whole lot better than the previous ones. He’d always had a thing for Bittle in uniform.

“Look at you,” Eric motions to Jack’s blazer and slacks. “All that for little ol’ me? Sugar, I’m touched.”

“Always want to look good for you, Bits.”

“You charmer,” Eric smiles brightly, twisting his stick in his hands. “To what do I owe this pleasure? You were here a few months back but that wasn’t much of a visit.”

There are a million thoughts screaming through Jack’s head, things he needs to say, questions, answers, apologies, instead he takes his foot and sticks it right into his own mouth, greeting the long-dead love of his life with, “Who are you trying to fool? Your accent isn’t that thick.”

Eric’s ghost, or possibly another of Jack’s tumor-induced hallucinations, bless him, has the decency to look offended.

“Wow, okay, rude. You caught me. I was going for a ‘Gone With The Wind’ nostalgia vibe though if I’d known it was going to be _you_ and not another batch of ghost-hunting-frogs I’d played up the angel angle. Fussed with the lights, floated a little,” Bitty leans back against the bench and gives Jack another once-over. “Gotten all gussied up in my Sunday best. Not every day your man comes to visit. Makes sense I’d be wearing _this_ when I finally saw you again”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see another Eric, the one that’s been following his dreams for months, wearing his peacoat and slacks.

Definitely not the same man that is sitting beside him now.

“You’ve been visiting me,” Jack says, only to watch a wry smile twist Eric’s cherry-bright lips. “I’ve seen your Sunday best. Besides, I love seeing you in your kit.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart, but that soul-sucking nugget in your skull ain’t me. I’m me.”

Bitty frowns, kicking his skate against the boards, buying time like he’s trying to think of a response. Which is madness because he’s technically Jack, so Jack is the one who can’t think of a response, but he —

“Well, I certainly haven’t been doing you any favors if you think that two-bit knock-off you’ve been seeing is the real deal, but I guess if you take enough drugs you can dress up apathy like anything these days,” Bitty mutters, looking around furiously as if he’s going to somehow fight his invisible doppelgänger. Which, again, is nonsense, because the other Eric is literally a figment of Jack’s imagination. They both are. The one in the corner _and_ the one beside him.

Right?

Jack follows along as best he can, head killing him, still terribly confused; and when Bitty notices Jack isn’t quite tracking, his irritated expression drops into something more compassionate. 

“Oh, Honey, you don’t know if you’re coming or going, do you?”

“I’m not at a hundred percent, no, but you’re not real, Bits. Neither of you,” Jack breathes, pressing his palms against his eyes to stop the pounding in his skull. “I don’t know why I even came here —“

“Oh, you fool, let me take care of this, get your head on straight so we can have a proper conversation,” Bitty stands and sets his stick aside to scoot in front of Jack, kneeling to his eye level, leaning in so close Jack is practically cross-eyed.

“Euh, Bits?”

_“Don’t listen to him,”_ the other Eric calls from across the ice. _“He’s not real.”_

“Oh, shush,” Bitty mutters, holding Jack’s gaze. “I’ll teach you to use me as a scapegoat for your emotional baggage.”

Jack waits for a beat, then two, before he receives a very hard, very real smack on the back of his head, courtesy of Bittle’s open palm.

“What was that for?” Jack curses, rearing back.

“Well? You feel better or not?” Bitty asks, leaning back against the boards. “You still hallucinating?”

“Am I still…? Yes!” Jack motions to Bitty with no small amount of frustration. “ _You_ are a hallucination!”

“Excuse you, I am a ‘spirit’, thank you very much Mister Zimmermann; I’m talking about Haunty Mcgee over there. You still see him? Because I sure as heck don’t.”

Jack blinks, peers over Bitty’s shoulder, and sure enough, the other Eric is gone. Vanished right along with Jack’s headache.

_“Crisse.”_

Bitty shakes off his gloves and grabs Jack’s shoulders.

“I. Am. Real.” Bitty emphases with a gentle shake between each word. “I’m dead but I’m _real_ , you big Canadian moose!”

“Bits?” Jack breathes, eyes burning. “You’re real?”

“Look at you, Sweetpea,” Bitty’s expression softens into something terribly fond. “You went and got fat without me. We were supposed to do that _together_.”

Jack ignores the chirp and grabs Bitty’s arms, pulling his confusingly solid body into Jack’s lap, pads and all, clutching at him with all the desperation one would expect in the situation.

“You died,” Jack whispers into Bitty’s damp hair. “You died on me. Why’d you have to go and do that?”

“Well, I didn’t do it on _purpose_ ,” Bitty tucks in close enough Jack can slip a hand under his jersey to touch the small of his Bitty's back. 

“You’re so warm,” Bitty giggles, bumping Jack’s chin with his cold nose. “Feels nice. Missed this.”

“ _Crisse_ , have you been here the whole time?” Jack realizes, pulling back to examine Bittle and the rink in turn. "Ever since -?"

“It ain’t so bad,” Bitty offers, dropping his head back down on Jack’s shoulder. “My concept of time is skewed to hell and back so it’s not like I’m sitting around all day going out of my mind . Kinda lonely but you’re here now and that’s what matters. You and your dad bod,” Bitty pinches at Jack’s _slight_ stomach. “Still so handsome. Just like I remembered. Or imagined. Maybe both.”

They stay together like that for some time: Jack running his hand along Bitty’s spine, pressing soft kisses against his hair and face while Bittle pokes and prods at Jack’s unfamiliar body. It’s as close to heaven as Jack thinks he may get.

Fuck, it might _actually_ be heaven. He might be dead.

"You never did come back,” Bitty says softly, voice lacks the accusing tone Jack would expect. “Not that I was waiting for you, or anything, I just thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. Did you move on? Shitty told me you didn’t go to the funeral.” 

“Shitty said he never saw you.”

“Well, try _not_ to listen when a blitzed lawyer is goading you into making an appearance on the anniversary of your death. I was watching from the bleachers the whole time, dumb-ass just never turned around,” Bitty sighs and straightens his sweater to pick at the loose thread hanging off the ‘C’.

“I think I had to move on,” Jack admits, possibly for the first time. “If I stopped too long to think about you, about how much I lost…I don’t think I would have started again.”

“Well, you’re here now. Enough moping. Let’s skate, get this negative energy out,” Bitty is up off Jack’s lap and pulling open the door, though Jack can see his fingers don’t quite touch the handle. “Tell me about your life. The good stuff.”

Jack rises, keeping a steady hand on the boards, and when his blades touch the ice he feels oddly numb; like the ambient noise has been muted, and his chronic pain has been dialed back from a six to a two.

“Huh.”

“Nice, right?” Bitty loops back around and holds out a hand. “C’mon, we have a lot to catch up on, and not a ton of time.”

Jack half expects to feel nothing when he grabs at Eric’s hand, despite just holding the man in his arms, so when Bitty wastes no time lacing their fingers, Jack embraces another moment of stark relief. Relief so strong he completely misses Bittle’s comment about time.

They glide across the ice with steady, even strokes, and Jack doesn’t even feel the strain in his joints when he asks, “Did it hurt?”

Bitty laughs. It’s the most beautiful sound Jack’s ever heard.

“What? Dying? No. I didn’t even know what was happening. Lord knows I got a little dizzy, blinked, and then it was over. Like falling asleep.”

Another pass, Bitty’s hand clutching Jack’s own tightly, almost painfully so.

“What about you? Was it weird?” Bitty asks softly.

“Was what weird?”

“You know, getting married.”

Jack’s at somewhat of a loss when he tugs Bitty back to catch his downturned gaze.

“Did Shitty tell you about that too?”

“No,” Bitty drops Jack’s hand and slides to a stop a few feet shy of the blue line. “The boys like to gossip, you know? That’s how I learn about most anything, anymore. I was being polite but I don’t want to step on any toes since we're getting all touchy; is she nice? Your wife?”

It takes Jack far too long to come up with an appropriate response, which also happens to be the truth.

“Oh, bud, no, I got divorced a long time ago.”

Bitty looks up from his skates in surprise, hair flopping into his face, clearly trying to hide his excitement about the news.

_“Really?”_

“Yeah, Bits, we weren’t great for each other. Honestly, she was a bit of a publicity stunt my PR team pulled together to make me seem like less of sad-sack. I had a whole life planned out for us,” Jack reaches out and pushes the fringe of Bitty’s hair back so he can see his dead boyfriend’s eyes. "So many plans."

“You remember I was 22, right?” Bitty counters, “And you were 27? You were my first boyfriend. Do you really think we would have stayed together forever?" Bitty takes off, sprinting ahead and yelling, “I mean, I’d have graduated with a worthless degree, you’d have been supporting me, we’d have fought and there’s no way we wouldn’t have drifted apart! I would have found some other guy and eloped to Miami,” Bitty loops back around to Jack, a bright smile on his face, “ _and I’m totally kidding_. Honey, I’d have married you in a hot second if you’d asked. I would have done just about anything for you. Even the dumb shit.”

“I didn’t run away from you,” Jack huffs when Bitty slides up behind him, hard, to wrap his arms around Jack’s torso and squeeze. “I had a ring and everything.”

“I’d have said yes,” Bitty sighs, pressing his face against Jack’s back. “If I hadn’t, you know, died.”

“Didn’t realize I needed to hear that,” Jack admits as Bitty’s fingers try to pinch his nipple through his shirt. “Hey. Stop it.”

_“Make_ me, _”_ Eric challenges, words muffled by Jack’s coat. “Hey, the sun’s coming up. Time to go.”

Sure enough, there’s light peeking through the windows, barely more than a dull blue glow, though it’s unmistakably morning. A bolt of panic rushes through Jack.

“Wait, what does that mean? Bits? You can’t go I just found you.”

Eric laughs, the sound ringing just on the edge of remorseful. 

“Oh, no, baby, you sweet thing, I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one who has to leave.”

“Bitty, I’m dying,” Jack whispers, clutching at the arms wrapped around his waist.

“I know that, silly. Why else would you be here? It’s not that bad, you know. You should take the advice of someone who's done it.”

“If it means I get to see you again, how bad can it really be?” 

Bitty makes a noise of protest and settles a hand on Jack’s chest, over his heart.

“You’re a fool, Jack Zimmermann, and somehow, despite that, I love you anyway; because only a fool would live their whole life waiting to die.”

“I didn’t,” Jack realizes, taking in the fond expression on Bittle’s face, the way his lips curve like he knows something Jack doesn’t. “Bits, I had a life. I lived.”

“You did, didn’t you?” Bitty chirps, lifting a hand to tap his finger on Jack’s nose. “So you're happy with how things turned out?”

Jack feels funny. Lightheaded.

“I…think so?”

“Yes or no, Sweetpea, indecision isn’t your friend on the ice,” Bitty chides. “You’re the one who taught me that.”

“Yes,” Jack amends firmly. “My only regret is I wish I’d been able to share it with you.”

Bitty leans in close and presses his lips to Jack’s cheek; a soft kiss he can barely feel.

_“Good answer,”_  Eric whispers. 

Jack would bask in the praise if he didn’t suddenly feel so unsettled; like a cresting wave, the agony of the last few months returns in full force, stealing his coordination, his clear head, and his strength. 

_“Fuck,”_ Jack winces,  breath puffing out into the cold air. “Is this - ?”

“What do you think?” Eric responds, running his hands over Jack's trembling arms. 

“Are you mine?” Jack whispers, hoping, praying this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. Eric’s fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping his scalp gently.

“Of course, honey. Always have been. Just been waiting for you to find your way back.”

They embrace again and Jack can’t find it in him to worry about any more than the man in his arms. In fact, he’s having a hard time thinking at all. 

Jack feels cold.

Jack feels . . . 

 

* * *

 

“Hey, skate with me?” Bitty asks, tugging himself from Jack’s arms and pulling at his wrist. “ _C’mon_ , just us, before the boys get here. We can watch the sun come up.”

Jack turns to the plexiglass and catches his reflection — one of a man much younger than he thinks he should be: lacking worry-lines, wrinkles. He snorts at the thought; he’s twenty-five, not _forty_ , maybe one day he’ll look like his father, but not today.

He lets Bitty pull him around the rink and, eventually, when first light begins to break, he backs Bittle into the boards and leans down to press the cold tip of his nose against his boyfriend's cheek.

“I feel like I haven’t held you in forever,” Jack sighs, “how much did I drink last night?”

“It was a Hausparty for the ages,” Bitty giggles, shying away from the cold touch and swatting at Jack's chest.

“You want to wait for the guys? We're supposed to meet them for breakfast after practice,” Bitty asks, careful with his words in a way that makes Jack think there’s more at stake than just morning skate. “But I’m okay staying if you’re here with me.”

His voice doesn’t sound quite right to Jack’s ears. Stressed. Jack takes in the rink — the light on the ice, the crisp cold smell, the perfect calm — and turns back to Bits, who looks so beautiful and so _tired_.

“You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”

“I’m a little exhausted," Bitty blinks up at him, nose pink, his eyes wide with surprise. "It’s been a really long night. Week. Year. I kinda just want to go home?”

Jack takes Bittle’s hand and tugs him to the door.

“Boys can start without us, then. I think we can swing breakfast in bed, take an order to-go from Jerry's. We can head back to Providence after a nap, sound good?”

Jack steps off the ice but Eric doesn’t follow.

“Bud?” Jack asks, looking back to see Bittle worrying his lip.

“You promise?" Bitty asks hopefully. "We can go...home?”

The question makes Jack feel like he’s forgotten something important.

“Of course,” Jack holds out a steadying hand for Bitty to take. “If we hurry I bet we can sneak in a shower, too.”

Bitty’s smile is relieved, but wary, and when he takes that first step over the gate Jack tugs at Bittle’s hand so he stumbles forward, right into Jack’s arms. "Wasn't so hard, was it? I've gotcha, bud," Jack waits for Bitty to look up, and when he does Jack ducks his head and captures Bitty's lips with a gentle, albeit slightly chapped kiss. 

"I missed this," Bitty whispers against his lips and Jack's almost asks what he's talking about when he feels Bitty takes a firm handful of his backside and _squeezes_. "Missed _you_ , Sweetpea."

"I didn't go anywhere, bud," Jack laughs as Bitty gives him another squeeze. "I've been here the whole time."

Jack turns, fully intending to kiss Bitty again when a door slams somewhere close. It’s morning. Their hockey team is coming in for practice. No, _a hockey team_. Not his.  Not Eric's.

_ ". . . Dude, is that Zimmermann? Is he . . .” _

_ ". . . Holy shit, someone call . . ."  _

"Time's up, love," Bitty rushes, hobbling on his skates as he tugs Jack toward the back entrance doors, abandoning their bags and equipment on the bench. "Now or never! You promised me breakfast in bed and I'm holding you to that."

"Keep it up and it'll be more than just breakfast!" Jack calls back, relishing the smile Eric tosses over his shoulder before he throws open the exit door, bathing them both in the blinding morning light.  

It's going to be a wonderful day.

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remix chapter prompted by a comment from Jacquee: "Oh, Jack, if you'd gone back sooner, you could have been the SMH coach for years and hung out with Bitty every night. I can picture Jack putting on all his slick, thermal layers and dragging a sleeping bag out onto center ice so he can talk to and touch Bitty until he falls asleep and oh wow, now I'm crying again."
> 
> Too good an idea to pass up so here we are.

It's been three years since Jack said goodbye to Providence, his NHL career, and an existence of unfair expectation to move back to Massachusets, accepting a position as the new head coach of Samwell's Men's Hockey Team.

 

It's also been three years since Jack received a phone call from his _incredibly_ wasted lawyer, ranting, _"Jesus fuck, Jack, you gotta get down here; I'm at Faber and it's true. It's all fuckin' true."_

 

"Okay, boys! Good hustle, tonight! Go get cleaned up and I'll see most of you here bright and early tomorrow for specialty drills. And Benton, if you're late again the whole team is doing suicides."

 

As the players depart, Jack busies himself with collecting the cones scattered around the ice until he hears another pair of skates hit the ice.

 

"They're coming along nicely, Sugar. I like the one with brown hair."

 

"They are, aren't they? It's going to be a good year, maybe not Frozen Four good, but we have time to work on that. Horowitz has a lot of potential for a freshman. Reminds me a bit of Chowder."

 

Jack has built a nice little life for himself: he owns a small brownstone just off campus, in walking distance of Faber and just about anywhere he'd like to be, he has a team of his own, again, he's working on his masters in his spare time . . . Oh, and Samwell has one other major perk to offer.

 

"Aww, Chowder, I miss him! Can you get him to come to visit? He and Farmer? They have a baby now, don't they? I want to see it."

 

"Autumn is hardly a baby, she's almost five," Jack settles the stack of cones under his arm and turns to see Bitty twisting his stick the way he does when he's nervous. "Bud?"

 

"I've been forgetting again, haven't I?" Eric asks guiltily. "I knew it. I knew there was something wrong, you always get all quiet and broody when I forget."

 

"Oh, Bits, it happens. You're okay, I'm not upset." Jack sets the stack down and tugs Eric into his arms, burying his face against his partner's damp hair. "You've been doing so great, remember? Little setbacks here and there are fine."

 

"But what if I forget you again?" Bitty whispers, clutching Jack tightly. "What if I don't know who you are?"

 

"You always remember me."

 

Jack doesn't need to mention the days where Bitty has happily called him 'Bob' and questioned him about Alicia and Jack himself; they're few and far between.

 

"Hey, hey, we talked about this. You'll have good days and bad days but it doesn't matter because I'm not going anywhere, remember? I work here. Have a contract with an iron-clad termination clause to prove it. I don't have to go back to Providence, anymore."

 

"And you won't leave me, again," Bitty sniffs and nods against Jack's chest. "I know. No more roadies."

 

"Never in a million years, bud," Jack drops a kiss to Bitty's matted cowlick. "I'm right here. You want me to stay tonight, just in case? Keep you company?"

 

 _"Yes, please."_ Bitty whispers.

 

 _"D'accord, mon lapin,"_ Jack pulls away -- reluctantly, always reluctantly -- and picks up the cones again, skating toward the bench with Eric trailing quietly behind him. "We can sleep on the couch in my office, are you okay if I watch tape for a bit? If you like, you can help me pick out a scholarship candidate?"

 

"Is it time already?" Bitty rests his stick down to unlace his skates and Jack pretends not to notice when the thing disappears the moment Bitty's hand loses contact. "I thought we just finished recruiting the new frogs?"

 

"You know, you're right, we did. I shouldn't rush things. How about we just cuddle and see where the night takes us, eh?"

 

Again, Jack doesn't mention the lapses in Eric's memory; he's having a hard night, it'll be better to get him into bed before things get too out of sync. The last thing Jack needs is to make Eric emotional; because an emotional Eric means blown out lights, malfunctioning Zambonis, and, on at least one rare occasion, mystery ooze coming up from the shower drains. 

 

Jack does _not_ want a repeat of the ooze incident; that was not a enjoyable call to janitorial.

 

"I'd like that, Sweetpea," Bitty smiles tiredly up at Jack. "I think I had too much to drink last night at the party. Or Holster made the tub juice a little stronger than normal. Did you try it?"

 

"Yeah, Bits," Jack lies, working on his own laces. "Way too strong. Tasted like gasoline."

 

Bitty kicks off his skates and, again, ignores the way they disappear. Jack, however, is still corporeal and knots his laces to toss his skates over his shoulder before extending a hand for his long-dead boyfriend to take.

 

"C'mon, Bits," Jack coaxes, leading a sleepy Eric to his office. "Let's get some rest. We can talk in the morning."

 


End file.
